


Poison's in the Powder

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: There’s a folded note that says, “Homemade, Stumpster. Just for you.” It’s not signed, but there’s a shitty drawing of a cobra, and that can only mean one thing: Gabe has made him cupcakes.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	Poison's in the Powder

**Author's Note:**

> Cleaning out the backlog.

Gabe is the man with the plan. It’s not really a great plan, bit still. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and Gabe is desperate, okay? He’s been out to get into Patrick Stump’s pants for a year. A year without results. That is ridiculous.

Hence the plan.

The stuff in the little bag is called salamander brandy. It looks like rum and smells like shit. Gabe gags when he opens the bag to check it out. He holds his nose closed with one hand and dumps the brandy into the cupcake batter on the counter with the other. The batter sloshes wetly against the inside of the bowl, but looks unchanged. Gabe is a little disappointed. He’d been hoping for hissing and fizzing like baking soda and vinegar.

He hums Womanizer under his breath as pours the batter into the pans and pops the cupcakes into the oven. He checks his watch, smiles to himself, and tries not to pump his fist in the air.

\---

There is a box on Patrick’s doorstep. It’s wrapped in ugly birthday paper, taped sloppily with yellowing masking tape. There’s no return address on it, but Patrick’s name is written across the top in big block letters. Patrick prods at it with the toe of his sneaker carefully. It doesn’t explode or bark, so he figures it’s safe enough. He picks it up and heads inside.

The box looks strange on his kitchen table. Patrick pokes at it for a few more minutes before finally tearing at the wrapping paper. The box inside is plain white, the top under-over folded. Patrick lifts up the flaps and looks inside. There’s a folded note that says, “Homemade, Stumpster. Just for you.” It’s not signed, but there’s a shitty drawing of a cobra, and that can only mean one thing.

Gabe has made him cupcakes.

This is not the strangest thing that’s happened in his life, but it’s pretty high up there. Patrick pulls one of the dozen cupcakes out and examines it closely. It’s dark and has a messy frosting job, but there’s nothing overtly suspicious about it. Patrick’s stomach grumbles its approval. Hesitantly, he takes a bite. It tastes like apples and brown sugar. There’s a shifty aftertaste, but it’s not the same as Joe’s pot brownies, so Patrick figures it’s okay. Actually, he’s a little surprised at Gabe’s baking prowess. He finishes the cupcake and, after a struggle with himself, reaches for another. They really are sort of delicious.

Patrick’s turning the TV on when his phone rings. He answers without looking and regrets it a little when he hears the voice on the other side. He then feels obnoxiously guilty and mutters an apology under his breath.

“Patrick,” Pete singsongs into the phone. “I miss you, dude.”

“You saw me yesterday,” Patrick replies.

“That’s forever ago,” Pete whines. He’s laughing, though, so Patrick can shove away the guilt. “Besides, I just bought that superhero movie you liked- with the dude in the blue tights and the explosions and stuff.” Patrick can see Pete’s hand waving around. He maybe misses him, too. “You should come over and watch it.”

“Now?”

“Totally.” Pete makes a kissy noise into the phone before hanging up. It’s more obnoxious than in person.

Patrick tucks his phone into his pocket and pops the last piece of his cupcake into his mouth. There’s no use arguing, now. He hopes Pete orders pizza. His stomach’s grumbling, still, but he can’t grab another sweet. His mother’s voice is in the back of his head, yelling about dessert and dinner and appetites. Patrick locks up and heads to the car. His head hurts a little, too. He’ll have to steal some aspirin, maybe.

\---

Gabe whistles as he walks up to the cozy little steps of Patrick’s porch. It’s taking a lot o effort not to skip. He knocks as obnoxiously as he can and waits. When there’s no answer, he rings the bell. It’s then that he notices Patrick’s Honda isn’t in the driveway.

“Well, shit.”

\---

Patrick’s sweating. A lot. He wipes an arm over his forehead as he parks and makes a disgusted noise at the feel. He hugs Hemmingway when the bulldog leaps into the driver’s seat. There’s a wet tongue on his face and, since Hemmy’s sniffing at the remains of last week’s Reeces Cup wrapper, it means-

“Pete, that’s gross,” Patrick says as he shoves Hemmingway gently back onto the driveway. Pete just cackles and leads the way back inside.

Patrick settles onto the couch and Pete pops the movie in. Patrick wants to make a comment about never using the theatre, but he’s too hot to really think about it. Also, his legs wont stop twitching. Pete keeps sending him weird looks. Patrick just shrugs.

Ten minutes into the movie, Patrick undoes the top two buttons of his shirt. The feel of his fingers against his chest is… nice. He hums a bit and ignores Pete’s scandalized look. The TV drones on and on, but Patrick can’t focus.

Pete’s hand on his forehead makes him jump. He meets Pete’s eyes and the pain in his head settles down at the nape of his neck, tense and aching. His arms are shaking. Pete soothes away the sweaty bangs from Patrick’s forehead, and the points of his fingertips feel like fire.

“You okay, man?” There’s genuine concern in Pete’s voice. Patrick tries to nod, but he goes somewhere dizzy between. He falls into Pete’s touch, the pain in his stomach growing. “Rick?”

“I…” Patrick steadies himself with a hand on Pete’s chest- bare for the weather- and the room stops spinning. He closes his fingers and flexes them again .The skin under them is hot and smooth, and Patrick wants to keep touching it. To taste it, maybe. He wonders if it’ll taste like brown sugar, like apples.

“Patrick?” Pete falls back when Patrick’s lips touch his collarbone. He makes a surprised noise when Patrick’s tongue snakes out, ghosting across the lines the flat of his chest. Pete taste like sweat, and the tang of his cologne is sour. It’s good, though, and Patrick can’t stop himself from licking a broad swipe across the stretched tendons of Pete’s throat. “Hey, hey. Not that I’m against us getting physical, but what’s going on?”

Patrick doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans against Pete’s front. He’s hard, and he’s not really sure when that happened, but his dick is pressed against Pete’s thigh, and it feels all sorts of spectacular. Pete’s all wide-eyes and aborted hand motions, and Patrick wants nothing more than to kiss him stupid.

So, he does.

Pete makes a noise of protest, but Patrick takes this as a chance to lick into his mouth, to rub their tongues together, and Pete’s noises change into something different. Patrick’s burning up. He pulls back and rips don the buttons of his shirt to push it off. It falls to the floor with a wet slap, and Pete opens his mouth, but Patrick kisses him again, cutting off any questions.

The shaking in his arms is getting worse. He’s having problems focusing the lines of Pete’s face going in and out of blurriness. His dick hurts, even though he’s pressing against Pete’s thigh in a steady rhythm. He whines against Pete’s mouth.

“Patrick,” Pete says throatily, turning his head. “Are you- ughn, do that again- okay? Seriously?”

“It hurts,” Patrick mumbles against Pete’s stomach. He’s managed to slide to his knees in front of the couch. Pete’s legs fall open easily.

“What hurts?”

“Everything.” Patrick rubs his lips over the zip of Pete’s jeans. It feels good, relieves some of the pain. The hard line of Pete’s cock is straining up, and Patrick’s mouth waters a little. He wants it.

Pete nearly topples off the couch when Patrick attacks the fly of his pants. Patrick struggles with it for a minute, his hands feeling too big, too clumsy. When he gets the zipper down, he yanks until Pete’s jeans are on the floor, wrapped around his own knees in a makeshift sort of cushion. Patrick takes a second to appreciate the way Pete’s dick curves against his stomach, the tip smearing a wet line over Pete’s tattoo. The ache in Patrick’s head has moved to his throat.

“Patrick-“ Pete groans when Patrick wraps his lips around the head of his dick and sucks hard. Patrick moans. It feels amazing, erasing the pain. Pete tastes sweeter, here, and Patrick wants to taste it all. Pete doesn’t seem to have a problem with this.

Patrick’s cock hurts, pressed up against the side of the couch. His hips are moving on their own, timed to the bob of his head in Pete’s lap. Pete’s hands are in his hair, fingers flexing at the nape of his neck, and there’s relief washing over him, spiraling out from the points of contact. He rubs his tongue against the underside of Pete’s cock, fingers digging into the thick muscles of Pete’s thighs. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and Patrick comes. He’d be embarrassed if he still wasn’t hard, still wasn’t hurting everywhere all at once.

“Did you just-“ Pete swallows down the rest of the words when Patrick shoves himself down further. The head of Pete’s dick presses up against the back of his throat, and his voice is going to be wrecked, but it feels like relief, and Patrick doesn’t care about that right now.

The pulse of pain has slid from his throat, down, down, down, to settle into the small of his back. It curls around his hips, makes him feel too aware of the stretch of his skin. Pete whines when he pulls back, breathing heavy against the nearest knee.

“Patrick, man, you alright?” Pete’s voice is as shaky as he thigh, and Patrick can see his dick twitch.

“No,” Patrick answers. He crawls up into Pete’s lap, kicking his jeans down. He’s still in his wet boxers, but he can’t separate his hips from Pete’s long enough to shove them down. Pete’s hands are hot against Patrick’s sides, rubbing up and down, fingertips digging in.

Patrick presses his face to the curve of Pete’s shoulder and thrusts his hips forward. He feels so damn hot, and his skin is buzzing, and he wants everything at once. His hat is gone, and he feels raw and exposed, overstimulated like a nerve picked apart from the rest. He ruts up against Pete in jerky, uneven movements.

“Fuck me,” he says into Pete’s skin, lips pressing wet against the curve of jaw and ear. Pete’s hips jerk, and the head of his dick pokes hard into Patrick’s stomach.

“Ugh?”

“Fuck me,” Patrick repeats, and that’s it. That’s what he wants. What he needs to make the pain ebb away. “Please, Pete.” He’s close to choking on the want, fingers curling and legs shaking. He’s sweating and he’s close to coming again, and he just wants. “Please.”

“Are you- Really?” Pete’s fingers tighten on Patrick’s hips, just this side of too much. Patrick nods against his shoulder and, then, he’s on his back, Pete over him. “Are you fucking with me, man? Because I can’t really-“

“Pete” Patrick squirms out of his boxers and presses up into Pete, throwing his head back. “I’m not fucking with you, just, please.”

Pete seems to take this at face value, which Patrick appreciates. Patrick does not appreciate the heat of Pete’s body leaving his as Pete hurries naked to the bathroom to grab lube. The pain comes back, and Patrick has to curl around himself, the shakes knocking pillows to the floor. When Pete returns, Patrick yanks him down, ignoring the muffled noises of concern. The slide of skin against his soothes him, and when lips press to his, he’s okay. He can breathe again.

He hears the cap of the lube hit the floor and wriggles until Pete moves far enough off of him that he can turn onto his stomach. The rough upholstery rubs at his stomach unpleasantly, but the choked sound Pete makes against his shoulder is worth it. Patrick whines, high in the back of his throat, pushing his hips back. He feels Pete swallow and, then, there’s a finger sliding into him slowly.

Patrick pushes back against it. The ache in his hips recedes, pushes back until it’s just a reminder. Pete tucks a second finger in, crossing them. Patrick can feel the brush of his knuckles inside, the burn of being stretched. The fingers crook and Patrick bites down on his lip as they rub at his prostate. He bucks his hips and, oh, Pete’s going to kill him because he’s coming on the couch, rutting back and forth.

“Dude, really? Are you sixteen-“

“I swear to god, if you don’t hurry up I’m going to punch you in the face,” Patrick grits out.

“Are you still hard?” Pete’s still working his wrist back and forth, but he cranes over to look. “That’s… not normal.”

“Do you want to talk right now, Pete?” Patrick asks, thrusting back. If Pete won’t do it right, damnit, he will. “Because I want to fuck. And if you’re not going to fucking do it-“

“Power bottom,” Pete says cheerily. “I knew it.” Patrick has a half-hearted retort ready, but Pete slides a third finger in, and all Patrick can do it bite down on his own wrist. His skin doesn’t taste the same as Pete’s, isn’t as good. “Dude, you’re sure about this, right? Like, really sure?”

“Pete.”

“Just checking.” Pete’s fingers slide out, and Patrick feels empty, empty, empty. The buzzing in his skin is worse, his thighs shaking under him. Pete rubs one hand, big and hot and rough, across Patrick’s back, and, then, the blunt head of his cock is pressing in, thick and hot. Patrick groans. Pete’s holding him still, keeping him from pushing back too fast. Patrick will be thankful for this come morning, but, for now, he’s impatient, whining as Pete presses in slowly, slowly, slowly, filling him and making a new sort of ache start up.

When Pete’s all the way in, he loosens his grip on Patrick’s hips, pulling back slowly. He thrusts back in hard, hips slapping against Patrick’s ass. He lets out a hiss of breath, leaning down to press his mouth to Patrick’s neck. Patrick tilts his head to the side, revels in the wet, sloppy kisses. Pete starts up an even pace, one hand on Patrick’s hip, pulling him back, the other splayed on Patrick’s belly.

Patrick rocks back, reaching a hand down to jerk himself off. Pete bats it away, replacing it with his own. He speeds up his thrusts, his breath hot against Patrick’s skin. Patrick feels like he’s going to burst, like he’s going to fall into bits. Pete’s holding him together, keeping him whole. Always, always keeping him whole.

Patrick comes when he feels Pete’s teeth sink down into his shoulder. He slumps down onto the couch, pushing back weakly against Pete’s thrusts. Pete presses in once, twice, three more times before pulling out and, then, there’s the heat of come across Patrick’s back, sticky and wet.

Pete slides down, pulling Patrick to him. Patrick curls into him and closes his eyes. He’s exhausted, sore. There’s fingers combing through his hair, skirting around the crown of his head politely. He’s too tired to look for his hat, and Pete knows the worst of him anyway.

\---

Patrick calls Gabe the next day. Gabe takes the lashing humbly and mumbles an apology. Pete calls an hour later and asks for the recipie.


End file.
